My P.E. teacher, Miss Somebody, wrote in my autograph book (hey, it was in '73) "You could be a real star if you apply yourself."
Ah! What? Meany. That pissed me off. But deep down, I knew what she meant. I sandbagged. Did the minimum required. I could have been a great basketball player if I tried harder. But I didn't. I don't know, I was afraid to give it more, I guess.
I approach writing the same sad way sometimes and I want to quit. But deep down in the resonant part of my soul, I have peace. "Try harder."
"But I've tried as hard as I could. I want to quit." (Think Barbara Streisand in "The Way We Were" when she runs out of class, tearing up her story.)
"If you faint in the day of adversity, your strength is weak."
Oh fine, Lord, quote Yourself to me. Quitting won't hurt anyone me. No one is going to chase me down the writing yellow brick road and beg me to stay. If I quit, who cares?
I have to change. I have to apply myself to be the star. Throughout life, I've always been good at stuff, but second string. At 44, can I finally be first chair, starting QB, head of the company? Can I be first in line? Can I be first string?
I don't want to be second string. I don't want to quit. But my heart hurts. And I'm scared. If I give my best and it's not good enough? Is my best just shy of the "good enough" bar?
Questions I ponder. But I won't quit. I can't. How will I ever know otherwise? But this I do, "I press on to the high calling of God in Christ Jesus, forgetting those things which lie behind. Press on, press on."
"When I was 44, I became a star." ;)